


This is gonna hurt

by HistoireEternelle



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, I'm so so sorry, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Maybe a tiny little bit of fluff?, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, broken Martín, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24941953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HistoireEternelle/pseuds/HistoireEternelle
Summary: Andrés was dead and he would never feel his hand on him, see the light in his eyes, hear his laugh ever again.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	This is gonna hurt

**Author's Note:**

> I was playing with a prompt generator and this one screamed Berlermo at me, so here we are... and I'm sorry.
> 
> The title comes from the song This Is Gonna Hurt by Sixx:A.M. (the acoustic version)

When Sergio had come to get him with his tale of a boy being tortured by the Spanish government , Martín had wanted to laugh. How dare he come to him to get help with the heist that should have been his love letter to Andrés? After four fucking years he dared to come to him for help? As if it wasn’t his fault Andrés had left him in pieces against that fucking wall, in that fucking chapel, in that fucking monestary, in that fucking Italy, in that fucking world! And then he had seen on the news that Andrés had been killed. Killed! After having being vilified by the medias, that stupid asshole had sacrificed himself to give time to that fucking team of incompetent robbers to get out of the Mint. And that had been Sergio's fault too! But instead of laughing, he had cried. He had let out all that pain he had nurtured in his heart for years. It had felt strange to let it go after living with it for so long. It had almost felt like losing a friend. Or a lover.

But then he had thought. That heist could still be a declaration of love to a dead man. They had planned it together. They were meant to do it together – _Yo te propose fundir oro juntos –_ but now Martín was alone and Sergio was asking for his help in his brother’s name. How could he refuse? He never could refuse anything Andrés asked of him, why would his death make a difference? Even dead, he still had that much power over Martín. Pathetic really. But Martín had packed his bags anyway and had followed Sergio to the monastery. Of course it had to be to the monastery. Sergio would not spare him any pain.

When they had arrived, the monks had welcomed them as if they had never left and he had felt what was left of his heart break when Sergio had told them that Andrés was dead when they asked if he would join them later. A small smile had appeared on Martín’s lips when the monks had said they would pray for Andrés’ immortal soul. As if there were something to salvage. Andrés hadn’t been a good man, far from it. Under his gentleman façade, he had been mean, selfish, a master in manipulation, a fucking beast sometimes and Martín had loved him with his whole heart.

When the monks had finished with their condolences, both Sergio and Martín had retired to their respective rooms, the specter of Andrés following them. Andrés had loved that place. He had fallen in love with it the first time he had set eyes on it and his presence – dare he say his soul? – inhabited those walls.

Lying on his bed, Martín knew he wouldn’t sleep. The silence coming from the room he shared a wall with was deafening. He was used to hearing Andrés move around at night or drop one of his beloved pencils or brushes. Those had been the noises that would lull Martín to sleep. But not tonight. Tonight the monastery was oppressively silent and would never be filled with Andrés’ life ever again. A single tear fell from Martín’s eye and he wiped it angrily from his cheek. He had promised himself he would not cry. Not anymore. He had already wasted too many tears on Andrés de Fonollosa. It had been his decision to go to the Mint with those idiots. And it had been his decision to sacrifice himself for people he barely knew.

Martín got up from his bed angrily. He had known that he wasn’t a good idea to follow Sergio. He had spent years trying to rebuild himself into something barely human after Andrés had shattered his heart in that same monastery and now that he has finally found a way to put the pieces back more or less together – with the help of lots of alcohol – he could feel the mask he was hiding his fractured personality behind crumble piece by piece. He would have to fix that before the rest of the gang arrived. Since he was awake, he decided to face his demons sooner rather than later. Being alone was also one of his motives to do it now. If he broke down – as he was sure he would at some point – nobody would be here to witness it. 

Putting on his robe, Martín left his room and walked silently to the chapel. He felt an irrepressible fear spread in his chest, turning his breath short and his hands sweaty. It was the place his love for Andrés had been crushed to dust. That man gave him everything he had ever dreamed of and trampled it in a matter of seconds with a kiss and a few harsh words. Martín could still hear his voice when he said those hated words, those lies. Because it couldn’t have been anything else. Andrés had lied when he had told him that he loved him, that they were soulmates. Nobody would have been so cruel with someone they claimed to love. He must have lied. And that mitochondria crap? Martín couldn’t believe he had fallen for that bullshit. For his defense, he had been slightly drunk at the time and that kiss he had shared with the man he had loved for years had messed with his brain.

He wasn’t stupid, he was an engineer after all and a clever one, and he wasn’t 15 anymore and in love for the first time. He should have known that Andrés speech was full of shit and called him on it. But he had been weak and Andrés had always taken advantage of his weaknesses. It hadn’t been the first time, but it had been the last. 

Taking a deep breath, Martín took a step into the chapel and froze at the sight. Nothing had changed since he left. The floor was covered with blueprints and sheets of paper, his equations still on the blackboard. A single bottle had rolled to the middle of the room and, on the desk stood the wooden box with its pistol. It felt like an accusation, a reminder of his weakness. Martín could still feel the burn of the alcohol he had drunk that night in his throat, the weight of the gun in his hand, its cold feeling against his head. He had almost taken his own life that night, only the stupid fear that Andrés might come back and find his cold dead body had stopped him. Even after what the other man had done, Martín had still thought about him, not wanting to impose the chore of getting rid of his corpse on him. 

Martín scoffed at his own stupidity and crossed the room to close the box, hiding the gun from his view. The sound the lid made felt like closure to Martín. He wasn’t that weak man anymore. He wasn’t even who he had been before that night. He was Palermo now, new member of the Dalí gang and mastermind behind the heist of the century.

He hid the box in the drawer of what used to be his desk and locked it, taking the key with him before starting to clean the mess he had made four years ago. Once every single piece of paper was in its designated place, Martín stared at the last thing he had to take care of in the room. Under a white sheet, resting on the easel it had been created on, stood Andrés’ last painting. An self-portrait because the fucker did love himself more than anybody else on this planet. Martín ran his finger on the top of the covered canvas, frowning when he saw the dust on his fingertip. No. he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t uncover it and see Andrés stare out at him. And he couldn’t destroy it either. He never could destroy anything Andrés had created. He had boxes full of crap to prove it. 

Leaving the room, he took one last look at the covered painting and gave it the finger before walking down the dark corridor. He had one last thing to do before the monastery would be ready to welcome the morons he would have to work with. He had to go and clean Andrés’ room so somebody else could use it. Sergio had proposed to take care of it, but since Martín was awake and already facing the ghosts of his past, there was no reason for Sergio to reopen the wound his brother’s death had left behind. 

Pushing the door that stayed slightly ajar for four years, Martín realized that Andrés had indeed never returned to the monastery after leaving him to join Tatiana. He wondered for a split second what had happened to the woman – Andrés’ fifth wife – but pushed the thought away. It wasn’t important. 

Andrés’ scent mixed with dust and humidity assaulted Martín’s nostrils and he couldn’t help but remember how many times Andrés had complained about the coldness and humidity of the place. Squaring his shoulders, Martín walked to the closet and pulled the double doors open, taking in the array of tailored suits hanging inside. It was worth thousands and thousands of euros and Martín shook his head at the fact that that pompous idiot had been such a coward that he didn’t even find the courage to come back for his clothes in case Martín had still been here. He shouldn’t have worried, really. As soon as he had recovered from his hangover, Martín had packed his bags and left the place to never return. Until now.

Opening one of Andrés’ prohibitively expensive suitcases on the floor, he threw everything in a pile inside and closed it – having to push the lid down with his foot – without any remorse. Next was the chest of drawers. Andrés’ ridiculous silk boxers and socks ended in a small bag with the undershirts he found in another drawer. The bed needed to be stripped of its sheets but for now Martín couldn’t do it. It could – should – have been their bed. The place where Martín’s dream should have become a reality. A place where he could have been happy with the love of his life. But now it was just an empty bed and Martín couldn’t face the fact that it would never become more.

So he walked to the bedside table. There was still a drawer to check before he would take care of the bathroom and dispose of Andrés’ art supplies occupying the other side of the room. Pulling the drawer open, Martín’s eyes scanned the knick knacks everybody had in a drawer someplace in their house. Pens that didn’t write anymore, the odd key you didn’t remember what it had been for but you kept nonetheless, some batteries – probably dead – a few broken paint brushes and charcoal pencils and under all that, a piece of paper. That was odd. Andrés usually kept his correspondence in a folder in the chapel and his drawings were always done in the sketchbooks of the highest quality he insisted on buying. Pushing aside the things he would have to throw away later, Martín took the envelope at the bottom of the drawer.

Tears filled his eyes when he opened it and saw what was inside. The piece of paper seemed to have been folded and unfolded time and time again, the creases in the paper turning so fragile Martín didn’t dare to touch it more than necessary. He wiped his eyes before his tears could fall on the paper in his hand. He couldn’t believe he had kept it. He had begged Andrés to burn it and never mention it again and Andrés had obviously lied when he had told him that it was done and he would never have to see it ever again.

Technically he hadn’t lied, Martín knew, but that asshole had no rights to keep that thing for so long. Running his fingers carefully on the image in his hand, Martín sat on the bed, his legs shaking, and closed his eyes. Not only did he keep it, but looked at it quite often if the state it was in was any indication.

Martín remembered perfectly that day, it had been one of the most joyful of his life and Andrés’ smile had been so beautiful, so communicative. He could swear he could still hear Andrés’ laugh echoing in the empty halls of the monastery. 

_Andrés had already been outside when Martín finally decided to join him. He had spent hours working on the vault problem and he needed a break. When he got to the patio, Andrés was sitting on a low wall, his back against the column behind him and he was drawing; pencils, erasers and sketchbooks scattered around him._

_Martín approached and sat in front of him, his back resting on the opposite column. Andrés raised his eyes for a second and smiled before returning to his drawing. Martín chuckled and shook his head at what was typical Andrés. The man was usually so absorbed by his art that he would not realize Martín was here for hours, so Martín felt honored to have received a glance this time._

_After a while sitting silently, Martín grabbed one of Andrés’ sketchbooks and a pencil and, his eyes going from Andrés to the page, he started to draw. He wasn’t an artist – at least not in that form –, far from it, but he was an engineer, he knew proportion, the shading would be the tricky part, but he wasn’t going to exhibit his work and it was something to keep his hands busy until Andrés finished what he was working on._

_“What are you doing?” Andrés asked after a while._

_“Drawing,” Martín replied without looking at him, he was busy fighting with the light on Andrés’ nose._

_“You’ll show me?” Andrés asked, his interest showing in his voice._

_“Nope.” Martín glanced his way before going back to his drawing, smiling at the laugh that left Andrés’ throat. He loved to hear that sound. It always warmed his heart._

_He heard Andrés turn a page on his own sketchbook before focusing back on his portrait. After a while, Martín felt the telltale prickling feeling of being watched and raised his eyes to meet Andrés’.  
  
_ _“What are you doing?” he asked, frowning at the intensity of Andrés’ stare._

_“Drawing,’ the smug bastard replied, smiling._

_“Are you sketching me again?” Martín couldn’t help the warm feeling spreading in his chest at the thought of being Andrés’ sole focus._

_“Maybe,” the man replied, his smile still in place._

_Martín chuckled and shook his head at Andrés’ antics. He loved it. He loved_ him. _Eraser in hand, Martín focused back on sculpting the shadow of Andrés’ cheekbone and decided not to dwell on his feelings for the man. He had already spent too many nights torturing himself._

_He came back to the world when he heard Andrés move around, gathering the mess they had created around them and Martín realized that the sun was already setting and soon the light would be insufficient to keep drawing. He looked at what he had created and frowned. It wasn’t bad per se, but it wasn’t good either. Andrés was recognizable, but that was it, the shadows were too thick, the blending not feeling natural and slightly off._

_“Can I see it now?” Andrés appeared at his side and Martín snapped the book close._

_“No,” he replied, pulling the book to his chest, his arms crossed over it so Andrés wouldn’t take it._

_“Why?” he asked, seeming genuinely confused by his reaction._

_“Because it’s bad and you’re going to laugh,” Martín said, his voice insecure, blushing slightly at his own childishness._

_“Why would I do that?” The surprise and hurt in Andrés’s voice was evident and Martín winced._

_“I’ve been to museums and art exhibitions with you, Andrés. I’ve seen you make a painter cry once. Cry, Andrés! And they were professional,” Martín replied a little bit too vehemently before getting up and taking a step back to add some distance between them._

_“I would never do that to you,” Andrés mumbled under his breath._

_“What?”_

_“I said, I would never do that to you,” Andrés repeated louder. “I would never hurt you like this. You’re way too precious to me,” he added, his eyes fixed on Martín’s so he could see the sincerity of his words._

_Martín was taken aback by his friend's words and the emotions he could see in his eyes. It was a variation of what he dreamed to hear from Andrés. Almost a declaration of love, but not quite. Or at least not the kind of love Martín hoped for. Friendship would have to be enough. He had been so shocked by what just happened that he didn’t see Andrés close the distance between them and pluck the book from his arms._

_Andrés spent an ungodly amount of time frowning and studying the drawing, so much that Martín started to fidget. Trying to keep his hands busy so he wouldn’t try to tear the book from Andrés’ hands, he grabbed the one Andrés had been drawing in and turned the pages until he found the last sketch. It was perfect. Of course it was perfect. Why was he so surprised? Andrés was a talented artist and he had sketched and painted him so many times, the strokes must come naturally by now. The fact that it was not representing the position he had been in was all indications he needed. Andrés had drawn him from memory._

_“You’ll have to work on the shadows, but otherwise it’s quite good,” Andrés took him out of his thoughts._

_“I’m gonna throw it away or burn it and be done with it,” Martín replied, extending his hand for the book. After having seen what Andrés was capable of, he wanted to destroy that poor excuse of a drawing he had created. “It’s not worth keeping and I’m not planning on doing it ever again. It was only to pass time,” he added in self depreciation ._ _  
__“Oh, Martín…” Andrés shook his head at his friend._

_What?” Martín retorted suddenly defensive._

_Andrés looked at him a few seconds before putting the book on the pile of art supplies he had gathered._

_“If you really want to get rid of it, I’ll do it when we get back inside, that sketchbook is too expensive to tear a page without the proper tool,” he said and Martín nodded, a little bit ashamed of his outburst. “But if you want to try again, I’d be happy to show you,’ Andrés added, his hand cupping Martín cheek in a reassuring touch._

Martín could swear he could still feel Andrés’ hand on his cheek. Rising his own hand to his face, as if he were trying to keep his friend’s there, Martín only found wet skin under his fingertips. Of course nothing was there, Andrés was dead and he would never feel his hand on him, see the light in his eyes, hear his laugh ever again. Andrés was dead and Martín was left alone.

Folding the piece of paper – his own drawing of Andrés – back, he replaced it in the drawer and closed it silently. Martín curled his body in the smallest ball possible in the middle of the bed, his arms around what used to be Andrés’ pillow and sobbed at the faint scent of the man he imagined he could still smell. Tomorrow he would move his bags here and give his own room to someone else. That way, this room could finally be _their_ room. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry.  
> Come and yell at me on [Tumblr](https://histoireeternelle.tumblr.com/) or Twitter @DidWrites


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